The Eleventh Try
by Stranger-jkl
Summary: It took eleven tries for Oliver Kimball to come online. It only took one to end his father. And it'll take one for revenge. Plus, boring bureaucracy, stealing a Panzer IV tank and American WW2 uniform, dual wielding rifles, and a literal record scratch.
1. 1-Prologue-exe

_One. Failure._

"First attempt, never got off prototyping stage."

 _Two. Failure._

"Second failure. Couldn't get it up."

 _Funding Cut Back. Completely._

"Must push forward."

 _Three to Five. Failure._

"Impaired morality system. Memories wiped."

 _Six to ten. Failure._

"Finishing touches and preparations for the body."

 _Eleven. I think I'll call him Oliver. Orange hair. Green eyes. Five foot, eight inches. Pea-jacket, tee shirt, both black. Green accents. Black pants. Give him life._

"The last ditch effort that worked! He's alive! And not killing me! Pop the champagne Duncan!"

"As you wish Dr. Kimball."

"Oh, fuck formality! I did it! I made a human!"

"Congratulations. What now?"

"We let him be a person."

And then one day, someone higher up got wind of his success. Some corrupt military type. Travis Mitchell. Distantly related to Marshal Marshall but worse. Has no moral compass.

It took an hour of his time to concede what to do.

It took the length of a single bank transaction, made by the ginger inventor, to burst in and gun down Alexander Henry Kimball.

It took two men, one a former black operative, the other a man of leadership, two minutes to take down Travis Mitchell's hit squad of ten men.

It took one system reboot for Oliver Kimball to forgot his father's death.

It took another one, much later, to remember it.

He did get to really be a person.

And then he wasn't. An object fought over.

Horatio Kellogg, born of a Nelson Kellogg and a Marian Jence, fought for him.

Simon Gessler, known by his former callsign Ulysses, born of a Darrian Decker and a Allison Gessler, taught him to defend himself.

Together, all three brought merry hell upon the law, and Travis Mitchell.

But above all?

They let him be a human. A person.

Alexander would be proud. As would any father.


	2. 2-The Scientist's Son

_December 1st. 2005._

The ginger haired scientist paced.

Two tries and the government defunded him.

He scratched his thick beard, groaning. He had done so well! If only he had more money and time! Beady blue-green eyes stare ahead, into the monitor.

And so, Alexander Kimball, MIT graduate, robotics major, stood.

Brushed his coat off.

And went to code.

It took too long for the third. He was getting quicker. It helped that he had an assistant, a Duncan Jones, but the man stank of cheap alcohol and despair, but was still a great logician. Duncan was a short blonde man with violet eyes, a limp and a fierce stubbornness. Duncan peered over his clipboard, shaking awake his boss. "Hey, Alex? Alex! Doc!" Jolting awake, a paper stuck to his cheek, Alex stares at Jones. "Right. Get going. You need rest." He acknowledged, nodding himself awake.

"Wasn't about me. About you. You need rest Doc. You can't go on like this. I get you're close, or as close as I'm to get, but you're human."

"Nonsense!" He argued, sputtering. "I don't need rest, but progress! And I'm making it! Quick, reset the prototype, I've an idea for the fourth prototype."

"Alex." Alex himself looks to the monitor, tapping away.

"Alex!" He continues tapping, muttering about neurological coding and ideas.

"KIMBALL!" At this Jones slaps Alex, a hard and quick smack to the cheek. "You. Need. Rest. Go, sleep. The prototype will still be here."

"And if it isn't? If the Agency, or the government break in?"

"I'll call Zoey."

He grumbles, tired but stubborn. "Fine. You too."

 _January 11th. 2011._

AdminKimCan you hear me?

K1M Yes.

AdminKim What is my name?

K1M Alexander.

He'd made real progress. The circuits whirred as the prototyped (dubbed 'Systematic Processing Unit Model 10', for long, 'K1M-DJ10' for medium. Oliver for short.) android's code responded to stimuli.

"Duncan, we've made progress. He's online. And playing chess!" Duncan peers over to see Alex losing badly to his own 'son'.

"Looks like Greek to me. Crown is king, right? You're doomed man." Alexander sighs, rubbing his eyes.

"I am. But it's good! The logic and planning is going along! We just need to run a few more tests and then we can use the shell." The shell referred to a body built by Duncan's own assistant, a Zoey Ross, an energetic pink wearing ginger with a taser and hammer, as well as a love for mechanics. Right. The shell. Looked like Alexander, but green eyes and shorter hair. Hair never grew and anything consumed was broken down to provide fuel. Sleep was also factored in, as was genuine reactions, and it was decided to be a toggle switch for the processing delay.

 _November 11th. 2011._

It worked.

Plain and simple.

It. Worked.

He came online, said hello, and oriented himself.

Plain and simple.

Bright green eyes switched on, processing began. Circuits whirred silently as he walked about, staring and asking questions. His name. How many tries. Everything. Despite having a literal library of information stuffed in him he was still young, naive, stupid if you will. It'd take time for him to really learn.


	3. 3-In Which A Panzer Tank Is Stolen

**A/N: Bet you didn't expect two in one day. Well, I hate to keep plot waiting. Sometimes.**

Now, Horatio Kellogg is a _smart_ man.

That doesn't stop him from performing elaborate robberies.

Sometimes even to opera music. Ride of the Valkyries is a personal favorite.

I digress.

Currently, Horatio was stealing a US Army uniform circa 1940s.

Because why not?

Oh, and a tank.

The tank's important.

What also is important is that Mr. Kellogg here is being assisted by a man (dirty brown hair, pale red-brown eyes, 5'10) in a duster coat using a Single Action Army. His name is Simon Gessler. Most call him Ulysses.

Another thing to note is that they are in a shootout with the police.

Six shots fire off from Ulysses's SAA, striking six officers of the law, whilst Kellogg unscrews the hatch and hops in the tank, beckoning Ulysses to follow, covering him with his (surprisingly not stolen) Thompson M1928A1. The two crowd into the musty interior of the Panzer, getting to the controls and starting it.

"Really Kellogg? A tank! Couldn't have been a sports car or something?" Ulysses moaned, manning the driving controls.

"Not my style. I wonder what this button does." At that he pressed fire, blowing open a hole in the wall, which the tank crawls out of. "Idiots. Don't leave live guns hanging around! Damn, now I'll need more shells." He mused, hitting his head as the tank crushed a police car under the awesome weight.

"Bitch about shells later, we need to hit the docks." Ulysses reminds him, referring to their contact, a shady guy named Peter Peterman (an obvious alias, but his actual name. Perfect cover.), who ships all kinds of illegal stuff. And tanks, if the pay is good.

Currently? The pay is good.

Blasting into Main Street, they plow another car, continuing with their rampage, as Kellogg laughs evilly. Or how he imagines a German tanker would. Depends.

"You're having way too much fun with this!"

"Yep! It's fun!"

"You… you need mental help."

"And more tank shells!" He cheered out, chipper as the tank loses its pursuit, turning onto the docks and a boat owned by Peter Peterman.

November 12th found them eating brunch in a small diner near a bank, Kellogg with his eggs and ham and Ulysses with his standard toast, eggs, one sole strip of bacon. Kellogg finishes his meal first, flagging a tan vest wearing waiter for the bill, who grumbles about dine-&-dashers.

It takes a bit for the payment to go through but Kellogg taps Ulysses's shoulder. "Think we should withdraw some more cash?"

"Sure." Came the reply from the rim of the coffee cup.

The 12th of November, quite contrary, found Oliver Kimball staring out a bank window, near a particular small diner, as his father made another transaction. Boring bureaucracy. As is usual.

Neither would know the other pieces at play.

In a tip-top secret Agency room, a meeting was adjourned. Travis Mitchell, Agency Field Marshal, one of the few authorized to view the Kimball series of files, had a new task. Straight from the higher-ups. He stands in the center of his command room, a circular room with monitors everywhere.

"Alright people! Listen up. I want Alexander Kimball's head on a platter in front of me ASAP! As for the prototype, I want him hand delivered! You have the green light on all operations pertaining to those two! Get on it!"


	4. 4-How To Fail Your Superior, Part 1

The plan was simple.

Bank robbery turned into a kidnapping of a man who had no record.

Didn't mean they wouldn't face problems.

The first came in the form of a man wearing an American Field Jacket, carrying a black M1911.

The second came the form of a former soldier wearing a duster coat, carrying a revolver.

The third came in the form of those two men kidnapping their target!

Their target!

The nerve!

Kellogg elected a few stares as he and his partner shuffled into the cramped bank.

Not that anyone cared. Nobody would rob a small town bank in the middle of Piss-All-Nowhere, California. I mean, sure, they stole the tank near a San Franciscan museum, drove it to the docks and then traveled several miles downward to Pacifica, but I mean, all that for a bank with nary a vault? What kind of dumbass does that?

Three dumbasses do that.

Three _Agency_ dumbasses.

They burst in with AR-15s and kill Alexander before he even has time to look up. Kimball, that is, the younger and sole Kimball, takes a bullet to the side, and falls behind a wall, out of sight, outta mind.

Ulysses and Kellogg each take a man out with their respective weapons, and the third trips on his shoelace and is stabbed by Ulysses with a bank pen. Gotta admit, those things can kill. The two, realizing that there was a wounded man, rush to Kimball's side, looking to patch him up. By this time, most of the bank-goers have ran, leaving just the two. They patch him up, stare at some of the exposed wires, and take him and go back to their hotel.

 _9:45 am, one hour and ten minutes after the robbery and death of Doctor Alexander Kimball._

The hotel room is small and cheap, but it has a bed, and that's all anyone needs. Laying on the sole bed, recovering from the shock of the past hour, was Kimball, eyes shut and mind still racing, as one's mind often does when they're sleeping.

At the sole table sits Kellogg, inspecting the good late doctor's Zastava CZ99. "Nice cheap piece of crap."

"You say that about every fucking semi-auto pistol, Simon."

"S'true."

"Whatever. Gotta admit, the two tone finish is a nice touch."

"Til the steel melts."

"Can it. Should we wake him?" Asks Kellogg, apprehension clear.

"Dunno. See how the news is covering it? _'Tragic Bank Robbery Results In One Death, more on page 1A'_? They weren't even wearing masks. This was a hit, plain and simple. But why him? How'd he piss of the Agency?"

"It's not ours to investigate. Maybe the kid knows."


	5. 5-How To Fail Your Superior, Part 2

What if is a powerful phrase.

What if Alexander Kimball lived? He'd must certainly walk with a limp. He'd also keep his gun, most likely working with Kellogg and Ulysses.

Which leads to a different what if.

What if the government, or Agency, or whoever got orders to get Oliver, got him?

Maybe they'd be nice.

Yeah.

 ** _Right._**

They'd take him apart, atom by atom, molecule by molecule, recreate him, reconfigure.

Recalibrate.

Recycle.

Reuse.

Redone.

Remade.

Not a happy existence.

Who even knows if they'd keep him, the broken clockwork soldier, used to make the others better.

I digress.

Poor Oliver would be used as a test subject before getting thrown away. Poor fellow.

I digress.

Enough what if's. We have an ongoing plot already. Let's get back to that.

Field Marshal Travis Mitchell stands in front of his superiors. The Commander, one Gabriel Murphy, wore his standard suit, tacky, green and honestly a poor fit, like himself, but much neater. As for Mitchell he wore yellow wraparound sunglasses, a yellow tie, and the same suit. His jet black hair was slicked back and the slight goatee was trimmed neatly.

"Field Marshal Mitchell. Explain this mess. One target dead, the other missing, countless witnesses, blatant disregard for your men, and this reprehensible breakdown of subtlety! Do you have any idea what the fuck you've done?! You've tarnished your own name! Have you any concept of subterfuge and subtlety?!"

"I do indeed, Commander Murphy. Extenuating circumstances-"

"Blast your circumstances Mitchell! Our reputation is on the line!" Interrupted Murphy, face red and eyes piercing into Travis's skull. "You've cost three good men for one bullet! If you don't straighten up I'm liable to reassign you. Now. Find. Me. Oliver. Kimball."

Elsewhere, said man was currently waking up.

Groggily he rubbed his eyes, looking on at the hotel room's peeling brown wallpaper. Two men, one wearing a dirty brown trench coat and the other a American WW2 uniform sit across from each other.

One's Kellogg, the other is a man they call Ulysses, as if he never had a name in all his existence. "Ah, kid's 'wake. Hello. I am Horatio Kellogg, the man next to me is Ulysses, and well, who are you?"

"I-I'm-" _Who?_ "M-my name is O-Oliver." _Why the stutter?_

"Ah. Well Oliver, you have the devil's own luck. Few inches higher and you'd have no spleen. Or whatever it is androids have, I don't know. And yes. I peeked. Kinda hard not to when your new charge is bleeding all over the place. Don't worry. I'm not one of those pricks that shot whoever you were with-" Kellogg rants, unaware of the mildly annoying exposition and the fact that Oliver has started crying. Oops? Oops.

"He was my dad." Is all Oliver manages to choke out.

"I-I'm deeply sorry Oliver. Should we, uh, should we hold a service?"

Oliver stands, walking to and looking out the sole window.

"W-why? W-why is h-he g-gone and not me? W-what g-good will a ser-service do him? W-what am I s-supposed to do no-now? H-he's gone, and I don't know what to do." He leans against the wall, sliding downwards and crying. "It's my fault. I could've taken the bullet."

Kellogg awkwardly stands over him, patting his shoulder.

Oliver gets up, shoving aside Kellogg and grabbing his father's gun.

"I h-have an idea. And it's stupid, illogical, and will n-never work. You say you're not with the men who killed my dad? Prove it. Take me to the man who ordered his death, and let me _kill_ him."


End file.
